The Burning King
by rivergirl77
Summary: Thranduil encounters someone on a dark night. Written in response to a list HalloweenSamhain challenge.


The Burning King

By: Rivergirl

RMH Halloween Fic CHallenge 2006

The smell of roast goose was turning his stomach.

From across the Hall, he could almost see the thick yellow grease. It slid in slick rivulets down the browning, crisping flesh. It defied the round and round and round of the spit, collecting in pendulous glistening drops, plunging downward to hiss and spit in the hungry flames. Each sizzling drop sent a wave of acrid, foul, burntness through the room. He could smell it on his skin, in his hair, in his fine festive tunic. He could not avoid the choking tang of charring death, of sizzling hissing burning . . . burning.

With a disgusted snort, Thranduil shook his head. He could not abide hours more of that blasted goose, of the overhot Hall, the stuffiness, and, most especially, the damned tension choking the room. It was hidden under pasted-on smiles, too loud laughter, too bright clothing. It pulsed beneath the harsh screeching of the musicians. All around him, his people feasted and feted, danced and dallied. No. Nothing wrong here. Naught at all. It was Third Harvest Night, the turning of the season, and all of Mirkwood was going to celebrate, by Elbereth. Oh yes, they would celebrate. So his advisors had _advised_ him.

Thranduil Elvenking shifted restlessly on his heavily carved throne chair. Was he the only one who could not breathe? The only one who noticed the oppressive stuffiness, the cloying smells? His eyes searched the Hall uneasily. He noticed a group of his subjects watching him. He nodded regally to them, a tight smile gracing his face. He tried not to twitch as a bead of sweat traced its way down his back. Who had decided he simply _must_ wear his heavy velvet robe this night? At the moment, he was sorely tempted to seek the culprit out on the morrow and banish him.

He flinched at a particularly sour note from the lutist. That was _it_. He'd had enough. If he had to bear another moment of singing elves, burning geese, and royal hangers-on watching his every move, he was going to have a tantrum that would have put Oropher to shame. He may even throw things. The thought _almost_ made him smile.

Stifling a disgruntled sigh, he rose gracefully from his seat. Settling his robes into place, he glided down the few steps to the floor. He made his way slowly through the crowd, clasping his hand to shoulders, nodding in paternal benevolence, smiling freely, returning greetings and well-wishes. He made his way through the double doors, exuding his royal royal-ness throughout, nodding one last royal nod as he exited.

With the doors, their finely carved crest of the House of Oropher almost invisible in the darkness, firmly closed at his back, the buzz of voices and music ceased. He breathed deeply of the crisp autumn night. Not quite so stuffy, but still tainted with the bite of smoke. The moon was shrouded, the darkness almost absolute. His shoulders slumped; his hands clenched.

Striding away from the Hall, he shrugged his heavy robe from his shoulders, dropping it carelessly in the dirt. His finely-boned hands pulled at the fastenings at his neck, loosening the collar of his undertunic. His pace increased, his feet finding a well-known path through the trees. He imagined he could feel an invisible tether, stretching back to the Hall full of his loyal subjects, dragging at him, pulling stronger with every stride. He strode faster in response, breaking into a jog, then finally a full run. He _had_ to get free of it, free of them and that mockery of a celebration. Surefooted, he raced through the night.

His headlong flight ended at a large clearing, a single massive tree standing solidly at the center. He breathed a sigh of relief. This was _his _tree. He could sense a flicker of welcome from the mute giant. At the foot of this tree, he had proposed to his lovely Eirien. At the foot of this tree, they had lovingly conceived each of their sons. At the foot of this tree, he had consoled those sons at their Naneth's departure to the West, wishing all the while she were there to console _him_. Here, he had bid his Legolas a warm farewell on the eve of his fateful departure to Rivendell. Here, he had farewelled his other two sons as they left for patrol duty on the border.

All of Mirkwood knew. This was King Thranduil's tree.

Few bothered to remember that this had first been Thranduil's and Oropher's tree. Under this tree, he and his Adar had spent countless hours debating and discussing matters. Here they came to puzzle together over the mysterious ways of their new Silvan people. Here they strategized. Here they reminisced. Here they had hoped and dreamed and planned and schemed for their future, for their kingdom's future. Here, Thranduil had sat contented, side by side with his Adar, his King.

Thranduil raised his hand to the trunk, tracing the delicate lettering etched there. Proof of one lighthearted afternoon when Thranduil and Oropher claimed their tree, and with it, their place in this Wood. He wearily leaned against the tree, pressing his cheek close beside the scars of their names. With an irritated grunt, he pulled his woven crown of flame-hued autumn leaves from his head. Rubbing his fingers against the indentations left in his skin, he flung the crown into the darkness. With its weight gone, he felt easier in his skin somehow.

Thranduil put his back to the tree, sliding downward to sit, his arms folded atop his raised knees. Gazing into the night, he sighed heavily. Even here, he could smell the smoke. A thin layer of grey covered the sky, blocking the light of the stars. He couldn't actually _see_ the flames from his clearing, but he could sense the forest's distress. It was burning. The Greenwood was burning. _His kingdom_ burned.

Somewhere in the distance, blood was spilled this night. Somewhere, elvish arrows found orc-flesh. Somewhere, crude foul blades spilt immortal blood. Tonight, somewhere, blood flowed and life fled, and all the while, his kingdom burned.

Somewhere, this night, his two oldest sons defended their home, shedding their sweat and tears and blood far beyond his reach. Perhaps, this night, they might die. Somewhere under this same sky, his Legolas, his little leaf, faced dangers unknown. Perhaps he, too, shed his blood or his life, far beyond the touch of his Adar, the orders of his King.

Meanwhile, at the heart of his kingdom, his people _celebrated_. They danced and sang and feasted while the darkness and flames grew ever closer, striving futilely to hold back the night with their cheer. The great Silvan festival of Third Harvest Night. Turning of the seasons. This year, perhaps the Turning of the World. Would the next year see his sons in the care of Mandos, or Thranduil himself, perhaps? Would his kingdom remain to see the seasons turn next year? Thranduil, more than most, recognized how grim their future may be. But still he rallied his people, and smiled upon their celebrations, and sent them off to fight and die for a fading kingdom, a fading race.

Thranduil closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the futility of it all. Tonight, more than ever, he wished to gather his sons to him and depart to the West. Leave this world to the Men and the Orcs. He was tired. His people were tired. Had they not fought long enough? Why must he send elves to die defending an ever-retreating border? What was the use? They were outnumbered and all the courage in the world could not hold against such vastly superior strength. His kingdom was being lost inch by bloody inch and he was tired of it. The burden had grown too heavy.

Who was he to bear it, to make the decisions, to lay doom upon friend and foe alike? He never wanted to be King. He had wanted nothing more than to stand at his Adar's strong right shoulder, defending him, obeying him, and loving him. His fearless, volatile, loving Adar.

Instead, he had borne his Adar's shrouded corpse home from Dagorlad, a bloodied crown uncomfortable upon his head, a dispirited and decimated army at his back. Now, he felt just as lost and broken as he had the moment he saw his Adar fall. All their bright hopes and plans, all come to naught. His Adar dead, his wife gone, his sons in mortal peril, his kingdom falling to ruin and ashes around him. For not the first time, he cursed his Adar for that last reckless charge, for leaving him to gather their tattered pride and shredded forces and carry on. If not for that one cursed day, perhaps all would not be lost now. His Adar would have known . . . well, something, anything that might have halted the slow decay of the Greenwood and its final fiery doom. _Oh, Adar, I miss you._

A sharp ache seized his chest, a grief still deep and strong despite the passing of the years. Surely his Adar would not have made such a mess of things. If only he were still here . . . with a mournful moan, Thranduil buried his face in his arms. He breathed in the smoky air and spun wishful webs of 'what ifs' in his mind.

He knew not how long he lingered there, sadly musing, but he was brought abruptly back to himself by a whisper of touch across his shoulder. With wide eyes, he sprang to his feet. No one was there. He listened closely for a betraying breath or footfall. Nothing. A reassuring pulse from the trunk behind him confirmed that.

With a grimace, he dragged his fingers through his hair, pulling apart the braids. He turned to sit again when he heard a soft whisper.

_Thranduil. _

His muscles tensed, his hand going to the dagger in his ornamental belt. He saw no one, sensed no one.

He felt an uneasy prickling at the back of his neck. He knew the Silvans believed Third Harvest Night was special. Believed that the veils between Arda and the Blessed Realm thinned on that one night. Believed that, very rarely, contact could be made with those who had passed beyond. Thranduil had always dismissed the idea as superstitious nonsense. His Sindarin people had no such belief. And Thranduil had never once seen even a hint of a lost one. Over his long life, he had lost innumerable friends, loved ones, and enemies. Surely, if contact could be made, he would have seen _something _in all that time.

But there was an odd feeling in the air, a strange hush that had descended on his clearing. Thranduil's eyes darted about, searching for some clue. Another touch, hardly there, against his back. He spun wildly, but saw nothing. A soft chuckle echoed around the glade. Thranduil tried to remain calm, but his heart was pounding.

_There_. Something . . . across the glade. There was . . . something. Translucent, hovering . . . mists swirling into a tall slender form, edges sharpening, features forming. A fine high brow, straight nose, mouth quirked in a crooked smile, long straight hair, laughing eyes. Thranduil felt his knees give way and caught himself against the tree. There, not a dozen paces from him . . . the very likeness of Oropher Elvenking. _Adar_.

His muscles tensed, uncertain if there was a threat here. When nothing happened, he forced himself to relax. With the frankness for which he was both admired and mocked, Thranduil set himself to studying this _thing_ in the clearing. Forcing his uncertainty down beneath a mask of curiosity, he walked toward the _thing_, circling around it. It was somewhat translucent, but appeared three-dimensional. Screwing up his courage, he poked at its arm with his finger. He felt a cool shivery sensation as his finger passed through the _thing_.

_If you're quite done, Thranduil, I have much to say and limited time. And please cease poking me, child. It feels odd._

Thranduil sprang back, his mouth dropping open. The _thing_ spoke in his Adar's voice, with the same sardonic amusement he had heard so often in his youth.

_Quit gawping, Thranduil. It does not suit you. Yes, it is me. Oropher, Elvenking, Adar, long-dead elf. I would ask how you have been, son, but I've seen your behavior tonight and I think I know._

"Adar?" Thranduil finally murmured.

_Yes, yes. In the flesh. Or not really. What have you done with the Greenwood? It seems disturbingly hot in places._

This bit of ill-timed humor convinced Thranduil that, somehow, his Adar was truly here. Here, and taking him to task for all he had done or failed to do for his kingdom. In that moment, Thranduil no longer felt like a King. It felt as if he were an elf hardly grown, called to account for his behavior.

"Adar. Oh Adar, I have failed you. The Greenwood has darkened, our people are diminished; now what is left burns at the foul hands of Sauron's orcs. I do all that I know to fight it, but the darkness moves ever forward. I . . . I cannot stop this from happening, Adar. Our people are dying and the Greenwood burns, and there is naught I can do," Thranduil's shoulders slumped at this confession. It was a painful and bitter truth, but he felt better for having admitted it.

_Go on._

Thranduil looked up in surprise.

_That is not all that burdens you, Thranduil. Tell me the rest._

The _thing's_, no, his Adar's, eyes met his, coolly neutral.

"I am tired, Adar. So very tired. It all seems to be crumbling around me," Thranduil confessed, softly. "My sons, your grandsons, I fear for their lives. Two of them battle flame and orc on our borders. Legolas, my youngest, he ventures on a misbegotten quest, with Halflings of all things, to the very gates of Mordor. At times, I doubt I will ever see him again. Our people fight and they die, bravely. Oh Adar, they are so very brave, but still the end creeps ever closer. I do not know what to do, Adar! I simply do not know what to do. I wish you were still here. Perhaps you would have known something to do . . ." Thranduil's voice trailed off.

_Perhaps. Perhaps not. _Oropher's ghost shrugged inelegantly.

"Adar, please do not mock me now! Our kingdom is burning, everything we built is being lost. Our people, our homes. Everyone looks to me for the answers, for hope. But, sometimes, Adar, I feel there is no hope left," Thranduil felt a familiar wave of despair wash over him with his words.

_Are you done now?_ A raised brow accompanied the question.

"Yes, Adar, I believe I am done," Thranduil responded lowly.

_Thranduil Elvenking, my son, you have not failed. You have made me very proud. Although, I will admit, this night is not your finest hour. _A chuckle then.

Thranduil met Oropher'seyes, an astonishingly young look on his face.

_Yes, Thranduil. You have made me proud. I know you never wanted to be King. But you had too much strength, too much courage, and far too many opinions to have forever dwelt in my shadow. You are a wondrous King, my son._

"But, Adar, our Kingdom, it's –"

_You know well that the world moves as it will, son, without our consent or approval. What do you believe I could have done that you have not? You have kept our kingdom strong and proud in the face of constant threat. You have kept our people healthy, happy, and free. But, dear one, Time moves ever onward, and you have long been fighting a battle you cannot win. The time of the elves is drawing to a close. You know this. All know this. It cannot be altered or changed. All you can do is determine the manner of the ending. Will it be on your terms or the Shadow's terms? To that answer, you have done, and still do, all that could be hoped for._

Thranduil had no response to that.

_I will tell you another thing, son. You are a better King than I was. _An abrupt gesture halted Thranduil's automatic denial. _You are a better King. You are better loved, more respected, wiser, and more just than ever I was. I speak the truth when I say I would have been proud to have you as my King. I am proud to have you as my Son._

Thranduil fought against the tightening lump in his throat from hearing those words from his Adar. Until the day Oropher fell, Thranduil's dearest wish had been for his Adar to be proud of him. He started to raise a hand to touch his Adar, but stopped short when he remembered. There was nothing there to touch. If Oropher saw the aborted gesture, he made no sign.

_I fear my time here grows short, Thranduil. If you remember nothing else of our conversation, I want you to remember this. There is always hope. There is always hope, son. Even when things seem most dire. I can make you no promises that your sons will return to you or that the Greenwood will not fall to the Shadow. The fate of the entire world hangs by such a slender thread. But as long as you can fight, you have hope. Your people look to you, Thranduil. You are their King. You have ruled wisely, loved devotedly, and fought bravely. You are strong enough to face this. You are my son. You are Thranduil Oropherion, Elvenking. Remember that. You have done well, dear one. You have done very well. More will die, our forests will burn, our kingdom may fall. But not due to the cowardice of the elves or our King. _

Oropher's ghost drew himself up with this statement, chin lifting proudly. For an instant, Thranduil remembered his Adar in all his martial glory, sword raised high, battle cry on his lips. Then the moment was gone. Oropher grew a touch fainter.

_I must go now. I wish I could stay with you, but I will see you again on the Blessed Shores, where we will sit together again, and plan and scheme. Vanyar superiority and Noldor pride have nothing on Sindarin cunning, my son. We sHall make a name for ourselves yet. _A familiar grin crossed the spectral face.

_Until then, remember. Oropher, once Elvenking, is proud of you Thranduil Elvenking. And always, always, I love you, my beloved son. I love you._

The apparition glided closer, reaching out a translucent hand. Thranduil closed his eyes at the warm, solid touch against his cheek. A calloused thumb gently stroked along his cheekbone, catching the tears that spilled over at the long-missed caress.

"Adar," he murmured.

The hand stroked along his head, finally gripping the nape of his neck. He felt the brush of a kiss against his forehead. Then it was gone. Thranduil opened his eyes, searching. The clearing was empty. He was alone.

"Adar!" he called, turning in a circle, searching for one last glimpse. There was nothing.

"Adar," more desperately.

With a cry, he fell to his knees at the base of his tree. Their tree. "Adar, don't go. Please don't go. Please. . .," he whispered brokenly.

"Adar. . . Ada! Ada, come back!" A cry stifled for centuries, since an Adar Invincible fell to a sword-thrust by a misshapen abomination from the depths of Shadow.

_Remember_. One last hushed whisper echoed through the glade.

Thranduil knelt there in the silence, his mournful tears finally tapering off. Despite the grief and loss that seemed fresh once again, there was a curious peace deep within him. His Adar was proud of him. His King was proud of him.

He wiped the tear tracks from his face and rose to his feet. With a brusque movement, he brushed the leaves and dirt from his knees. Deft fingers gathered his hair, quickly re-braiding it into order. Making sure all was in order, he took a deep breath, held it for a moment, releasing it in a long sigh. He squared his shoulders, raised his chin, then strode confidently through the clearing.

Just as he entered the treeline, he paused. Turning on his heel, he returned several steps, crouching to pluck his leafy crown from the forest floor. A finely-boned hand straightened the bent leaves, then settled the crown firmly on his head. A last nod to the tree and he disappeared into the forest.

Thranduil traveled the well-worn path with ground-eating strides. He had shed his self-pity with the last of his tears. His Adar was right, of course. They may not be able to prevent their fall, but only they could decide the manner of their end. Knowing his people as he did, they would stand and defend until the breath left their bodies. As would his sons. As would he. And who knows, they might just win. There was, indeed, always hope. And he had a job to do.

As he reached the carved doors to his Hall, his heavy cloak in place, he looked upwards, then laughed. The pall of smoke had parted for the moment, and high above, the stars shone down upon Mirkwood and Thranduil Oropherion, Elvenking.

THE END


End file.
